


Abnormal

by MissNaya



Category: DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Come Swallowing, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, First Time Blow Jobs, Light Masochism, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Past Child Abuse, Shoe Kink, Spanking, adopted but still, child grooming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-16 15:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10574529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: AU. Jason jacks Black Mask's tires instead of Batman's. He still gets a home out of it.His place as the crime lord's right hand man is a comfy one, but Jason wants more. He gets it after he turns sixteen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so I know there's a lot of demand for more chapters of Blurry, but this idea came to me, and I had to write it down! we'll go back to your regularly-scheduled jayroman shortly. but it never hurts to add more work to this painfully small tag, does it?
> 
> more spanking and daddy issues and masochism abound. hopefully you all don't think I'm too much of a one-trick pony...!

Jason remembers boosting the tires off a slick black Rolls-Royce parked in Crime Alley. He remembers coming back to see a group of men in leather masks standing around it, holding guns and sounding sour. He remembers being caught by the scruff of his neck, remembers slamming a couple of them with his tire iron in his haste to try and get away. He remembers how impressed Black Mask sounded when he called his men off.

He remembers feeling a burst of pride in his chest like nothing he'd ever experienced before.

He remembers being taken to the penthouse of a tall building. He remembers the feeling of his first hot shower in months, his first full meal in what felt like forever. He remembers being called “ _my boy,_ ” being promised the world and more, if only he chose to stick around.

When he remembers the feeling of Roman's hand, big and heavy on his shoulder, he wakes up in a puddle of sweat, hard and panting.

* * *

 

At meetings, Jason wears a mask like the rest of them. His is the only red one in a sea of black. Whenever a new guy scoffs and asks why he gets to stand out while the rest of them, even the boss, wear black, Jason shrugs and says, “'Cuz I'm the favorite.”

It's still an odd thing, to think of someone caring for him like Roman does. At fifteen, it's no less strange to Jason than it was at twelve, when he was plucked, small and filthy, off the streets. But Roman's given him a place to stay, a place in the _world,_ where before, Jason had thought of himself as less of a person and more of a rat: a fixture in a city, something alive and trying to get by, but nothing anyone would ever look at with more than passing disgust.

He still lives in the penthouse. He's never quite gotten used to Roman's propensity toward expensive things and grandiose gestures, but when they sit across from each other and have dinner, Jason almost feels like this might be what a normal family is like. Sure, he's short a mother, but he has a father again.

Sometimes, he misses his birth father, even with his beatings still fresh in his mind. He's glad Roman let him shoot out Two Face's kneecaps for killing him.

Other times, he wonders if the way he feels about Roman is really how a son should think of his father. He never thought of Willis the way he thinks about Roman, but then, he's grown to realize his early life wasn't normal by any definition of the word. Maybe this, he thinks, is just another part of growing up in a loving home. Maybe everyone catches glimpses of their fathers out of the corners of their eye, lets them linger too long while they dwell on the feeling of their hands and their praise. Maybe he's not a freak.

Maybe. But probably not.

* * *

 

 

Of course, he's not a leech. He pulls his weight just like all the adults do. With Black Mask's sponsorship, he was able to hone his talent for street fighting and turn it into something more developed. He's one of the most skilled fighters in their gang, and, while he can fight with fists and knives as brutally as someone twice his size, he prefers guns. People take him more seriously when he's got a piece pointed at their face. The gang trusts him with those things, deadly and intimidating, and he never lets them down, a good enough shot that he can hit a running man's kneecap from yards away.

It isn't like he enjoys hurting people. He never set out to become a criminal. But this is business, and the people who get mixed up with Black Mask always know full well what they're doing. Besides, as ruthless as Roman can be, he isn't a terrible person. He has a reason for everything he does. Jason believes that, because the alternative is too painful to think about.

* * *

 

For his sixteenth birthday, Roman gifts him a pair of 9mm H&K USPcs. If he squints, he can make out a dark, shiny red color decorating both of them, like day-old pooled blood. They fit snugly in his hands, lightweight but sturdy.

The best part is that he can tell they've been made especially for him.

He turns them over, breathless and silent, and doesn't notice Roman has moved behind him until he feels heavy hands settle onto his shoulders. Roman rubs little circles into his neck with his thumbs, and Jason's eyelids flutter.

“What do you think, my boy? Do you like them?”

“They're awesome,” Jason breathes, trying to resist the urge to sink back into Roman's grip. “When do I get to try 'em out?”

Roman chuckles. “How about tonight? I wasn't planning on asking you to work on your birthday, but—”

“I'll be there,” Jason says. “Wherever you need me.”

 

 

For a long while, it doesn't seem like Jason's going to get to use his gifts at all. The job is routine and boring, supervising a cache drop near the docks. Jason leans up against the warehouse wall, managing to look sulky even with his mask on. His hands twitch near his sides, searching for any excuse to pull his guns from his holsters. All the while, Roman chuckles and encourages him to be patient.

His opportunity comes in the form of a black, shadowy mass dropping down to scoop up one of their men.

Jason has his guns out in a second, but the shadow's already gone. A second later, their guy drops back down, hanging from some thick rope by one of his feet. While they're all still gaping, the shadow steals a second person.

Someone says, “It's him!”

Black Mask calls out, “Shoot him, you idiots!”

It's his voice that spurs Jason to action, so by the time the shadow comes for a third man, he starts shooting.

They all miss, but they manage to get the shape, the _thing,_ to drop the man he'd been holding, unfortunately by throwing him right at someone else. Jason cranes his neck to get a better look, but all he sees is the flutter of a cape before he hears something whiz by his ear. He's fast enough to avoid it, himself, but a few men cry out and drop their weapons as their hands are slashed open.

Jason sees a curved, batlike piece of metal sticking out of one of the warehouse doors right before he ducks for cover.

The resulting fight is quick and brutal, but it gives Jason ample opportunity to try out his new toys. He never hits the shadow, the Batman, but he's able to get a feel for how powerful his guns are, and the exhilaration of being involved in such a fight makes up for their eventual failure. He's shuffled back into the car by a bodyguard, practically tossed onto Roman's lap in the backseat, and they drive off, their men split between two cars, taking practiced evasive maneuvers until they're home free.

If Jason shimmies down in his seat and cranes his neck just right, he can see the batlike shadow darting away over high rooftops in the distance, in pursuit of the other car. He doesn't realize he's grinning until he catches a glimpse of himself in the window.

Behind him, he can see Roman, with his arms folded over his chest.

Jason lets his grin fade and sits back up.

“You knew he was coming, didn't you?” Jason asks when they get back to the penthouse. “You knew Batman would be there.”

“I couldn't be sure,” Roman says, pouring a stiff drink. “But I had this feeling. Can't believe you didn't manage to drop him.”

Jason's shoulders slump. “Uh.”

“Kidding.” Much to Jason's surprise, Roman passes _him_ the glass, and he stares down into it, nerves still on edge from the fight. “Not even _you're_ that much of a crack shot. Drink up, kid.”

“Is this— I mean, I'm only...”

“I had my first drink when I was sixteen,” Roman tells him. “Age is just a number, don't you think?”

“...Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right,” Jason says.

He drinks it all, even though it burns like hell on the way down.

 

 

He has another glass, then another, with Roman whispering praise into his ear and rubbing his shoulders the whole time. Jason pretends like he isn't dizzy, like it doesn't take every ounce of his self-control to keep his words from slurring. Even then, he's not sure how good a job he does.

By the time Roman eventually guides him to bed, strong arms keeping him upright, Jason's scatterbrained and lost, can hardly remember what happened five seconds ago. He thinks that maybe he grabs at Roman's arms and tells him to stay when he's laid down on the mattress.

But when he wakes up, he's fully-clothed and alone.

* * *

 

He spends a lot of time in the shooting range after that, perfecting his technique with his new pistols. He's gotten the hang of using them long-range while he uses his legs short-range, breaking the necks of test dummies between his thighs while he fires midair shots through the long-gone centers of wooden targets.

His brain doesn't know who to think about more often: Roman, or Batman. He knows Batman has been a thorn in Roman's side for quite a while, but Jason had never before been allowed to meetings where it was likely he'd show. Jason had reluctantly complied, because, while the thought of fighting _the_ Batman had always been exciting to him, he didn't like the future Roman laid out for him if they'd lost: Jason, taken away from an adoptive parent thought unfit to raise him. Shoved into the sort of crummy foster home he'd been trying to avoid since his mother died. Condescending looks, people trying to “help” him, and worst of all, no guns.

But he's sixteen now. He's more capable than ever. Clearly, Roman can see that. So maybe, just maybe, if he runs into the Batman again, he can hold his own. Somewhere in the part of Jason's mind reserved for daydreams of glory, he imagines being the one to kill the Bat, imagines how shocked and pleased and _proud_ Roman would be.

He attacks the dummies with renewed vigor, and begins to make a plan.

Batman goes to Crime Alley the same day every year. Nobody knows the significance of the date, but they say he patrols the area even more heavily that night, to the point where no one dares to try anything illegal for blocks all around.

By now, Jason's had over a month to prepare. Reading articles, talking to Batman's past victims, and digging up old CCTV footage of the so-called Dark Knight's brawls. He feels confident enough to expect anything.

Still, it's... strange, how he comes across Batman. Kneeling under a flickering street lamp, touching his fingers to some old stones in the walkway. Even from this angle, he looks distracted. Jason almost feels too bad to fire on him, but then he thinks of Roman, and raises one of his guns.

When someone lands on him feet-first, he realizes he forgot about Robin.

He curses, rolling with the attack, but the gun in his hands skids across the cobblestone and gets lost in the shadows. He jabs Robin in the stomach, under the ribs, takes a few punches before he manages to pull out his knife and slash through his tunic.

He hears Batman's voice for the first time, low and grave, calling, “ _Robin._ ” This Robin, with pants instead of shorts and holding a staff Jason doesn't remember him carrying around before, backs off.

Jason retreats, himself, yanking his mask half-off to spit a wad of blood onto the ground. Batman and Robin stare at him, cautious, Batman's hand hovering near his utility belt. Jason, on edge, pulls out his remaining gun, and refuses to let himself think that he may have gotten in over his head.

“You're a member of Black Mask's gang, aren't you?” Batman asks, cautiously. “I remember you. From the docks.”

Jason yanks his mask back down and cracks his neck. “What gave it away?”

It's a rhetorical question, but Batman still answers. “You're not like the others. You wear red. Who are you?”

Jason looks between the two of them: Batman, with one arm outstretched and the other poised to grab something from his belt. Robin, with his staff pointed at Jason's face.

He levels his gun at Batman's head in response. “I'm the guy who's gonna serve your corpse up to Black Mask on a silver platter.”

He doesn't wait, firing on them, and they part and roll, surrounding him on both sides. They're agile, but Jason is faster than he looks, and he puts up a good, if loud, fight.

It isn't until some of the assault lets up that he realizes he's been led away from their original spot. He recognizes this alley as the one where he first met Black Mask, and the realization leaves him open for Robin to kick him back a solid five feet.

He skids to a stop, tasting blood. His mask is gaping open from where a batarang grazed him, and the leather has peeled back to reveal half of his face. He glares up at Batman when he lands too-gracefully in front of him, gripping his gun like a lifeline.

He watches Batman take in the sight of him, wonders what he's thinking. Is he surprised to see someone so young under the mask? Concerned? Disappointed? Amused? It's impossible to read him with that cowl on.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, soft enough to make Jason wince. “Why do it for someone like him?”

“You wouldn't understand,” Jason spits.

“I might.”

Instead of responding, Jason just scoffs, head lulling back and throbbing. Though Batman's jet-black form takes up most of his line of sight, he can see a glint of red and gold a few feet behind him, watching silently.

There may only be one way out of this. He just has to be fast.

“...I don't think so,” Jason says at long last. He makes like he's going to lower his gun—

—then shoots Robin in the leg.

Batman whips around, calling out for his sidekick, and Jason takes the opportunity to stand and bolt. He knows this part of the city like the back of his hand, even after all these years. He knows just where to go to lose Batman's trail.

He expects Batman to follow him, expects the gunshot to have served as a few seconds' worth of distraction. So, when he risks one last glance back at the pair, he's surprised to see Batman kneeling by Robin, cradling him as if he actually cares.

For reasons Jason can't explain, it makes him sick to his stomach.

He turns down a corner and makes his way back home.

 

By the time the elevator makes its way up to the penthouse, Jason feels like he's about to pass out. He's seeing double, and his stomach aches from where he'd been kicked, threatening to spill its contents at a moment's notice. It's amazing how much adrenaline works to mask the pain when you really need it to.

He practically falls out of the elevator when its doors slide open, leaving a bloodstain red as his hood on the stark white of the carpet. The last thing he hears before he passes out is Roman calling his name.

* * *

 

Were it not for the aches all over his body, Jason would think last night was a dream. It feels so unreal, so fantastical, but here he is, cheek stitched up, arm in a sling.

And Roman standing over him, arms crossed.

“Finally, you're awake,” he says, and Jason can't tell if that's relief or exasperation in his tone. “Where were you last night? What happened?”

Jason looks down at his lap. Now, with all his plans for glory smashed into dust, he feels stupid for ever thinking he could take on the Batman alone. And how must Roman feel, worrying about him all night, then having to take care of him like this? His cheeks burn with shame.

“Jason,” Roman says again. “You know you can tell me anything. Who do I need to kill?”

The way it's phrased puts Jason at ease, but only a little bit. He cringes, risking a glance up at Roman. “...Batman?”

For a while, there's silence. Then, just when Jason feels like he's about to burst, Roman laughs.

“Batman. Jesus, kid. _Batman?_ ” He laughs some more, and Jason squirms, brows knitting in indignation. “How the hell'd you get caught up with Batman?”

“I went looking for him,” Jason says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. “I wanted to... to kill him. For you.”

That, blessedly, gets Roman to stop. He can feel his gaze boring into him through the eye holes of his mask.

“...Yeah?” he asks. “Now, where'd you get an idea like that?”

“I just, um.” Jason shrugs. “Thought it'd make you happy. Getting him out of the picture.”

“Kid, nothing would make me happier,” Roman says, “than to see that rodent beaten and bloody at my feet. He's been messing with my business for years. But why on earth would you think _you_ could take him down yourself?”

He must catch the way Jason grimaces, because he's quick to sit on the side of the bed and coo at him.

“Hey, now, that's not what I meant, and you know it.” He lays a hand on Jason's shoulder, and Jason leans into the touch despite himself. “All I'm saying is, men twice your age have been trying for years to take down the Bat. It's not an easy task. In fact, just getting away from him is impressive in and of itself. How _did_ you manage that, son?”

Whether because of the praise or the term of endearment, a smile starts to worm its way onto Jason's face. “I shot Robin.”

“You _shot_ —” Roman sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Jesus. Okay. That works, but you're gonna bring hell down on my head, kid.”

Jason fists his free hand in the sheets. “Sorry... It was the only way I could—”

“No... No, that's fine,” Roman says, even though it sorta seems like it's decidedly not fine. “As long as you're safe, right? As long as you're still mine.”

Jason isn't sure how he should take that. Maybe he should be creeped out by Roman's possessiveness. Insulted, even. But instead, he just bites his lip and nods, cheeks pink.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yours.”

* * *

 

His injuries are minor, but they still take a couple of weeks to heal. His ankle is sprained, his shoulder muscles tore, and the gash on his face looks uglier before it gets better. That's to say nothing of all the bruises. But Jason wears them like badges of honor that boast “I fought Batman and Robin and got away.”

Roman is less tickled. Jason can tell he's on edge, and, though he denies it, he knows it's because of the stunt he pulled with the caped dunces. He's not sure if it makes it better or worse, the way Roman never takes off the mask to show off his expression. If he looks disappointed, Jason wants to know. He wants to make it right.

“...I really am sorry,” he says at dinner one night, for what has to be the thirtieth time. He doesn't apologize often, but when he does, it's always to Roman. “I know you've been worried about this whole thing—”

“Worried? You don't give me enough credit,” Roman says over the rim of a glass of wine. “I'm _cautious._ Now, what have I told you about beating yourself up?”

Jason pushes some meat around with his fork. The tongs scrape irritatingly over his plate. “You don't have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle me with kid gloves. If you're pissed, tell me. I'm sixteen now. I can take it.”

Even as he says the words, Jason knows he doesn't mean them. But the uncertainty is killing him. There's something stirring in his gut that wants something to _happen,_ like he can't stand having done all this for everything to go back to normal.

Roman watches him for a few moments. Eventually, he sighs. Jason hears the clatter of Roman setting his silverware down.

“What you did,” he says, carefully, “was something I'd kill any of my other men for. It was reckless and stupid, and for all we know, Batman could be about to smash his way into our home right now to pay you back for what you did to his little boy toy.”

Jason bites his lip. Something about the way Roman says that spurs on the parts of him that he's been trying to ignore most of his life.

“I should punish you.” Roman sighs. “Maybe that's the problem. I've given you too much freedom. Then again, you've always been so promising... There's never really been any need for discipline. I should've known the teenage years would be this way...”

Jason swallows. It feels like there's an impossibly large lump in his throat. “Do it.”

“What?”

“Punish me.” He licks his lips, slowly, carefully. Lifts his eyes to look at Roman. “I-I just want to— to make you proud, dad.”

It slips out before he can stop himself. Usually, he calls Roman “Black Mask,” or “father.” Changing it up right now feels... intimate.

He's not sure how Roman feels about it, but he doesn't scold him, at least. He sighs again, beckoning Jason to his side of the table with a gloved finger. Jason moves without hesitation.

“You've always been so good to me, boy,” he says, and Jason bristles with pride he doesn't feel like he deserves. “Always trying to help out your father. Before we start, I want to make sure you know that. Understand that whatever I do, I do it for _you._ No matter how painful it might be.”

“I know,” Jason breathes. He's not sure why, but he feels lightheaded. “I know, dad.”

“Alright. Bend over my lap.”

Jason's not sure he knows how to move. He tells himself he's making this weird, that any other kid would just do it without feeling like their head was full of cotton, but that doesn't help him much.

“Uh.”

Roman tilts his chin, and Jason imagines him rolling his eyes. “See? I knew I should have spanked you when you were a boy. Poor thing, you don't even know what to expect. Here.”

Roman grabs him, and Jason moves like a ragdoll in his hands, letting him position him however he wants. He's grateful for it; deciding how to move seems like an impossible task right now. He ends up sprawled across Roman's lap, gripping the legs of the chair awkwardly to keep himself up. But Roman sets a hand on the back of his neck and pushes him farther forward, leaving Jason with his ass sticking out and his crotch pressed against Roman's leg.

He gulps.

 _This is normal,_ he tells himself, _this is better than a beating. You're the only one making it weird._

“My father used to use his belt,” Roman says, conversationally. “Buckle included. Said it builds character. I believe him. But you have character, don't you, Jason?”

Jason can't speak.

“Don't be modest. You do. And, given that this is your first notable offense, I think I'll go easy on you. How does sixteen sound? One for every year.”

Lump still caught in his throat, Jason nods.

“Alright. Count for me.”

Jason isn't prepared for the first open-palmed smack across his ass. It doesn't _hurt,_ really, but it startles him, and churns something deep and frightening and mature in the pit of his stomach. He takes a breath.

“One.”

“Good boy.”

Roman keeps going, slow but firm, one hand between Jason's shoulder blades while the other lands blows on his ass. Each one rocks him forward a bit, creating a pressure between his legs that he struggles to control. He hopes, begs, _prays_ that Roman doesn't notice, but when Jason's hips lift too far up, he grabs him by his thigh.

“Don't move around so much,” he says, forcing Jason's legs apart and re-positioning him on his lap. “There. Where were we?”

“N-nine.”

“Right.”

Roman keeps going, and every time Jason's legs move even an inch, he forces them back to where they were. It keeps his back arched and his crotch pressed to Roman's leg, and he realizes with glum certainty after smack number twelve that there's no way Roman can't feel how hard he is. His counting becomes strained, voice high with the effort it takes not to burst into tears. His cheeks burn like they're on fire, but even that has nothing on the inferno roaring in the pit of his gut.

By the time the last hit lands, Jason is trembling, and despite his best efforts, a few tears slide off his nose and splash onto the floor below. He practically sobs out, “ _Sixteen._ ”

“Good. That's very good, my boy. Come. Sit up.”

Roman's hand grips his shoulder, pulling at him, but Jason shakes his head. All he can think about is how obvious the tent in his pants will be as soon as he stands. If he stays like this, maybe he'll melt into the floor before Roman can see.

“Hmm? Come on,” Roman says, clicking his tongue. “Surely it can't hurt _that_ bad.”

Why is he doing this? He has to feel Jason's cock pressing against his leg. Is he being teased? Is that it? Is this part of the punishment, the way he's pretending like nothing's wrong? Or maybe Jason was right all along, and even this is a normal way for a spanking to end. The possibilities pound at his head with the force of a swarm of hornets, cutting off rational thought and leaving nothing but anxiety behind.

Finally, Roman manages to get him to sit up. Ears burning, Jason refuses to look at him, though it's not like he'd be able to see much if he tried. His eyes are blurry with tears, and they cut wet trails down his cheeks.

“Aw. Poor boy,” Roman coos, wiping his tears away with his thumbs. Even through the humiliation, the tenderness warms Jason from the inside out. “Tears are normal. But that?”

Jason freezes. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know what _that_ is referring to.

“That, I'm afraid, is not. You're not supposed to enjoy your punishment, you know.”

“I-I— I d-didn't mean to— I'm not—” Jason starts, but Roman shushes him, finger to his lips.

“Not a problem, son. We can fix this.”

Jason sniffs, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “We— We can?”

“Mhm.” Roman nods, and with those strong, confident hands, guides Jason to his knees on the floor. “Look. Look at me, Jason.”

Jason does, but what catches his attention isn't Roman's face. It's the tent in his immaculate pressed slacks. His mouth drops open inadvertently.

“ _You're_ not supposed to enjoy this,” Roman says, “but I can. Keep that pretty mouth open for me, son.”

Jason's breath comes out in a rush, and he starts to pant, feeling like a dog, a mutt, something filthy and undisciplined and unworthy to be sitting at Black Mask's feet. For some reason, that makes him feel better, not worse.

Roman undoes his belt first, then his pants, and when he pulls out his cock, Jason sees stars. He looks up at Roman's mask, its impassive stare meeting his hungry one.

“Dad...”

Roman cups his cheek, pulls him forward. “It's alright. This is between you and I. Let me see that tongue of yours...”

Somewhere in there, Roman unlocked the magic words to banish what's left of Jason's worries. He opens his mouth wider and sticks out his tongue, lets Roman rest the head of his cock on it. He keeps his hands on his knees, fingers sliding against denim. Even now, touching Roman without being asked seems too far.

“That's good. Suck on the tip— Mmn, just like that.”

Jason begins to bob his head slowly, eyes locked on Roman the entire time. He wishes more than ever that he'd take off that mask. He knows Roman doesn't want him to see what his face looks like underneath, but he doesn't care at this point, just wants to _see_ what he's doing to him. Every little quickening of Roman's breath cuts through him like a drug. If his voice can do that much, what might it be like to see his face?

Roman's hand wraps around to the back of his head, urging him deeper.

“There you go. I know you can do it. Good boy... Feel what you do to me? I'm like this because of _you,_ Jason.”

And Jason feels responsible, _powerful,_ to the point where it very nearly washes away his guilt. There's still a part of him trying to tell himself this isn't right, that he shouldn't do this with a man twice his age, with his _father,_ but he shushes it. They're not related by blood. And anyway, he's sixteen. He's practically an adult. Roman must see that, too.

He lets Roman fuck his face, content to let himself be used however his dad sees fit. This is a punishment, he keeps reminding himself. So it shouldn't feel good. But, try as he might to tell his body that, his cock strains so hard against his pants that he feels like the zipper will leave an indentation even through his boxers.

Then Roman changes his angle abruptly, and Jason feels the tip of his cock sliding down his throat. He chokes, hands flying up to push himself back, and Roman lets him, clicking his tongue again. Jason coughs, thick strands of saliva dripping off his lips to wet Roman's slacks.

“Sss— Aahhhh... Sorry, daddy,” he says, before he can think. He says a lot of things before he can think, like, “I can do it better. I can take it. I can suck you good, daddy.”

He hears Roman's breath catch in his throat. “Where did you learn to talk like that? Nowhere bad, I hope.”

Jason huffs. “I've used the internet.”

“I see.” Roman chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Well then. Show me what else you've learned, my boy.”

With a determined set to his jaw, Jason leans forward. Tentatively, he wraps a hand around Roman's length, looking up at him for permission. When he gets a small nod of the head, he sucks Roman back down. He tries to copy the way porn stars suck cock, hollowing his cheeks and twisting his wrist, but it's so much harder to set a steady pace without Roman's hand there to guide him.

Slowly, he tries to take in more of his cock. He thinks back to a few tips he'd read on message boards: relax your throat, stick out your tongue, watch your teeth. This time, when he feels the smooth head of Roman's cock hit the back of his throat, he doesn't choke. He holds the position until he feels lightheaded, then pulls back, gulping down breaths like a drowning man.

When Roman speaks, it's breathier than usual. “Good. You're doing very good, son. I hope you haven't been practicing on anyone else.”

Jason shakes his head quickly. “Nuh-uh. Never— I-I've never.”

Roman chuckles. “Then you're just a fast learner. As always.”

When he pushes him back down onto his cock, Jason's chest swells with pride.

Roman sets a quicker pace after that, more brutal, challenging Jason every half dozen thrusts to take him in deeper. A few times, he has to pull away to cough and catch his breath, but Roman just wipes the tears from his eyes and murmurs sweet encouragements before urging him back down.

He gets better and better the longer time goes on, he thinks. Even though his jaw starts to ache and his lungs start to burn, he doesn't let up. Not that Roman would let him if he tried, fingers tangled in his hair to keep him steady. He relishes the burn, thinking that this, _this_ is atonement. This is sincere. This is as far from pretense and platitudes as they can get, here on his knees, with his father's hot, swollen cock in his mouth.

When he tastes something salty near the back of his tongue, his heart speeds up. He thinks back to the videos he's watched online, where women would tilt their heads back and open their mouths, and men would come, thick and white, on their faces. They don't even flinch. He wonders if he'll be able to do the same. He thinks, too, about the ones that let men come other places, like their chests, their thighs, and wonders how it'd feel to have Roman yank his pants down and splash cum down the crack of his ass, over his hole.

Turns out, he doesn't have to worry about either of those options. Roman grunts and pulls out most of the way, instructing Jason to keep his lips around the head with one gruff, “Suck.” Jason does, and Roman jerks his shaft, practically _growling_ in a way that sends vibrations down to Jason's cock. Then he's twitching, groaning, and coming, and keeps Jason from jerking away in surprise with the hand still caught in his hair.

It's _thick_ and there's so much of it and the taste is strange, but Roman pulls his cock away and presses a hand to Jason's lips to keep him from spitting. Surely he must see the tears welling up in Jason's eyes, but, well, this is a punishment. Right?

“Swallow it for me, good boy,” Roman says, voice deep and scratchy in a way Jason's never heard it before. “Drink down all of your daddy's cum.”

Jason shudders and forces himself to do as he's told. When he's done, he proudly opens his mouth.

“Atta boy.” Roman sounds like he's smiling. Jason wishes he could see it. “Knew you'd be able to do it. Now, go wash up and get to bed.”

Jason, hard and dazed and painfully aroused, can't quite wrap his head around what Roman is saying. He blinks. “Huh...?”

“You heard me. Straight to bed. Chop chop.”

Jason nods, rising to his feet. He might be imagining it, but he thinks Roman's gaze rakes over his erection for just a few seconds too long.

“Oh, and Jason...?”

“Yeah, dad?”

“Don't touch yourself.”

Jason wants to speak up, wants to protest, wants to do a million and one things, most of them involving his dick and Roman's hands. But there's a satisfied feeling in his chest at being told definitively what not to do about his little “problem,” so he just nods again and turns away.

As he lies in bed, unable to sleep, he thinks that he might feel a rebellious streak coming on.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE it's a series, because I'm a piece of garbage with no self control
> 
> this is probably the skeeviest thing I've ever written, and I'm loving it. of course, full disclosure: Roman is a Bad Dude and a Villain and should not be trusted or used as an authority on basically anything. don't use fiction as a model for real life. I trust u, kiddos, enjoy

When Jason wakes up, he thinks at first that he must have dreamed up last night's events. His sleep was certainly fitful enough, filled with visions of Roman touching him and holding him and calling him a good boy. It's hard to distinguish reality from fantasy, but then he shifts and feels the lingering pain from his spanking, and he knows what really happened.

He lies in bed for what must be hours, just dwelling on things. Everything had felt so natural, so right, like he'd been on a fixed path with no way to change course, and that had been just fine. Now, though, thinking back, he tells himself he should've tried. They're not technically related, but Roman is his father in every way that matters. Roman is his _father,_ and Jason still got on his knees and sucked his cock anyway.

Even thinking about it is enough to get his blood racing. He can't imagine how embarrassing he must have looked, inexperienced and tearful and painfully hard, and he's not sure if the butterflies in his stomach are from shame or arousal.

He hates thinking that it might be both.

More than that, though, he hates the idea of leaving his room and having to face his father. What if Roman regrets it, too? What if he's torn up about it, killing himself with some moral qualm? That more than anything makes Jason feel sick. He'd go back in time and stop things if only to save Roman from that guilt.

By the time he finally forces himself out of bed, he's shaking. It's already after noon. He wants to shower, but he has to leave in order to do that. He bundles up some fresh clothes and tentatively walks out.

A glance up and down the hallway reveals no sign of Roman. Jason closes the distance to the bathroom in record time, locking the door and firing up the shower as hot as it'll go. Then, at the last minute, he changes his mind, turning it to cold. When he steps under the spray, the half-stiff erection he'd had for too long shrinks away, and he lets out a shivering sigh of relief.

Once he's finished, dressed, and clean, he spends ample time hovering in front of the mirror, very pointedly not looking at his reflection. He considers running back to his room, but he knows he can only spend so long cooped up in there before he'll have to come out. He can already feel a pang of hunger after too many missed meals.

_Shit,_ he thinks. _May as well rip off the bandaid._

He puts all of his effort into looking composed as he pads into the family room, but he still can't breathe easy. He hears the television first, tuned into the local news channel. Across the room, he can see the dinner table, the chair where Roman sat while he spanked him and fucked his face. He's never hated the open floorplan of their penthouse more.

And then, finally, he makes himself look at Roman, sitting with one arm slung over the back of the couch. He stops dead in his tracks, mouth dry. He doesn't know what to say.

Luckily, Roman breaks the silence for him.

“Son, you're up,” he says. “Finally. Did you sleep well?”

Jason almost gapes. Roman sounds so... so _normal,_ so casual, as if nothing ever happened. For a second, he wonders if he really did dream everything up. He swallows and shakes his head.

“Sorry to hear it. But I suppose that's to be expected, after your first real taste of discipline.”

Ah. So a no on the dream thing, then. Jason wants to sink into the floor.

Roman pats the couch cushion next to him. “Come here. Sit with me.”

Jason does, numb from his head to his feet.

“Now,” Roman says, and Jason can feel him looking at the side of his face, though he just stares ahead at the TV. “I know you may be feeling hurt, but I need you to understand that I only want what's best for you. I would _never_ do anything to you if I thought you couldn't handle it.”

Jason's stomach sinks even more at that. Is this what “not handling it” feels like? If so, the weight of disappointing his father sits heavier on his shoulders than any of his other worries. Roman must notice the way he tries to curl in on himself, arms shifting around his midsection, because he puts a hand on Jason's shoulder that stops him stiff.

“Jason,” he says, “talk to me.”

That's absolutely the last thing Jason wants to do, but he feels like he has to say _something_ before Roman's view of him is annihilated forever.

“I,” he starts, and licks his lips in a feeble attempt to keep his mouth wet. “I... I'm sorry, I—”

“Ah-ah,” Roman says, pressing a finger to his lips. Even the cold leather of his glove feels molten against Jason's skin. “None of that. You apologized enough last night.” He moves his hand to Jason's chin, cupping it gently but firmly in order to force Jason's face toward his own. “I'm not a vindictive man, Jason. Not if I don't need to be. And you've given me no reason to believe you're not entirely remorseful. Am I wrong to think that?”

“No,” Jason says quickly. He tries to meet Roman's eyes, but the mask bugs him more than it usually does, so he keeps his gaze downturned. “No. I just...”

“Just what? Don't be afraid, son. You can tell me anything.”

A few seconds pass like an hour of suffocating silence, and finally, Jason says, “...I liked it.” Roman says nothing, so he keeps talking, finally giving in to his natural inclination toward word vomit. “I know I wasn't supposed to, but I did, and I— Is this, I mean... S-sex is, like... We're rela—”

Roman cuts him off with a warning sound. “Jason, I knew you never got a proper education as a child, but I realize now that things were worse than I thought. Oh, you poor boy, you must have been so confused. I sincerely apologize; that was my fault.”

Jason looks confused. Jason _feels_ even more confused than before, but Roman tugs him to his side with the arm around his shoulders, and the whole thing is so friendly and nonchalant that he starts to feel silly for reacting the way he did.

Roman goes on, “What we did wasn't _sex._ Not in any traditional sense of the word. Like I said, it was _discipline._ The emotions involved are completely different than what you'd feel with someone your age.”

Jason isn't quite sure he understands. It doesn't sound right, and he's never seen anyone talking about something like this, but then, maybe these things just don't get talked about, in the same way that his mom and all the other women on his street wore bruises on their cheeks but never said a word to each other or the police. _“This is a family affair,”_ his birth father used to say, _“which means it stays in the family. We don't need no one else to help us work out what's between us.”_

Maybe Roman is right. Maybe Jason's original childhood home was so fucked up that he never learned something the rest of the world must know so well that it's unspoken. There are a million and one different reasons to have sex, right? This must be one of them. After all, Roman sounds so sincere, and he's always been good to Jason. If he wanted to sexually abuse him, he'd have done it years ago, before Jason got old enough to drive and shoot and fight. What reason would he have to lie?

His shoulders slump.

“Oh,” is all he can manage.

“I feel terrible,” Roman says. “Just terrible. I should have explained it more clearly, I mean, you were puzzled enough at the spanking—”

“No!” Jason says, sitting upright and looking at Roman properly for the first time all day. “No, I'm just— I'm an idiot, alright? Don't feel bad, dad.”

“Not an idiot at all,” Roman says, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “Everyone has to learn sometime. Now, what do you say about getting something to eat?”

Jason smiles, and feels like maybe things are gonna turn out okay after all.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sounds good.”

* * *

 

The rest of the day goes much better. They go out to a restaurant, one of the less fancy ones that Jason doesn't feel out of place in. Then Roman fills him in on all of the day's business, particularly about how pissed he is that a couple of his guys got locked up as part of a bust. They walk down the street, everyone giving them a wide berth, and Jason listens intently as Roman grumbles about which cargo drops will need to be rescheduled because of the inconvenience.

Which is when Jason gets an idea that's much less idiotic than the Batman one.

It takes some convincing, but by the time night rolls around, he's stationed near one of the warehouses scheduled to receive a dropoff. He's been given his own team comprised of people stronger than they are intelligent, as if Jason needs the extra muscle. At the very least, he can rest easy knowing he's the only one in the group capable of calling the shots.

Not that it's a very difficult drop. It requires some stealth, and they most definitely need to be efficient, but it's not like they're dealing with nuclear warheads or anything. At most, it should take fifteen minutes, but Jason is determined to halve that and show his dad just how good at this he can be.

He really, truly is determined.

For the first half hour.

But as the clock ticks on and the idiots driving the shipment truck text him with delays — _traffic,_ who gets stuck in traffic at 10 PM? — Jason's mind starts to wander. He leans against a wall, and with his face covered by a shiny new mask, he's free to stare blankly into the distance while his help mills around.

Roman has deals all over the city, and he's dipped his fingers into international trading. One gun shipment isn't going to make or break him, but it's still worth thousands of dollars. Jason lets himself wonder how mad he might be if something happens to it. He wonders if he'd take it out on his men, i.e. the adults who've been trained for the situation, or on Jason himself.

His mind latches onto the latter option for all it's worth.

* * *

 

“ _One task,” Roman says, pacing back and forth. “I give you_ one _task, something I'd trust to even my newest recruits, and you_ still _manage to screw it up! Haven't I raised you better?!”_

_Jason's been on his knees since he got back home. He's apologized and babbled and kowtowed like a condemned man, but Black Mask is hearing none of it. And there's no mistake that this_ is _Black Mask he's dealing with right now. This is the ruthless businessman, the tycoon, the crime lord that everyone in Gotham fears as much as, if not more, than the Batman. Black Mask, at least, is not seen as a myth. He's very real, and his temper is well known to anyone who's even worked with him in passing._

_To be on the receiving end of that temper, being treated like a common employee instead of a trusted son, is an experience Jason never thought he'd have to deal with._

“ _Yes, father,” Jason mutters, staring at the ground._

“ _No,” Roman says. “Don't play that card with me, not now. If you want to work for me, you can use the proper name when you beg for my forgiveness.”_

“ _...Yes, Black Mask.”_

“ _Good.” Black Mask steps over to him, and Jason sees his shiny black shoes come into view. “Now, I don't intend to..._ dispose _of you, like some of the other worthless sacks of crap under my employ. But don't think I'll go easy on you, either.”_

“ _Of course not, Black Mask.”_

“ _God, what a kiss-up. You're sickening.” Black Mask lifts a foot and rests the toe of his shoe just in front of Jason's lips. “If you wanna kiss something, try this.”_

_Jason does. He presses a few shaky kisses to the polished black leather, but that isn't enough. The shoe is pressed harder to his mouth, forcing his lips open, and he sticks his tongue out without having to be told._

“ _Yeah, that's right. Might as well put you to work as my shoe shiner, if nothing else.”_

_Black Mask lowers his shoe to the ground properly, and Jason follows, bending over to lave his tongue over the side. He continues until the whole thing is slick with his spit, then does the same to the other one. All the while, Black Mask mutters filthy things over his head._

“ _Should've had you do this ages ago,” he says. “This is something you're good at. A real natural at using that mouth of yours. My boy knows how to make me feel good, doesn't he?”_

“ _Yes,” Jason breathes, and he's not sure when they went from employer and employee back to father and son, but he doesn't care. “Daddy, lemme help you feel good, please... I'm so sorry, I'll do anything...”_

“ _Come here,” Roman says, and in the blink of an eye, they're on the couch, Jason straddling his father. Roman's hands are on his hips, guiding them in circular motions, rubbing their crotches together through layers of fabric. “Just like that, Jason. Let daddy hear you moan.”_

_Jason tries to muffle his cries into Roman's shoulder, but he's yanked back by his hair. He feels pressure building already, something stirring wildly in his gut, and he just wants to_ touch _but his hands are shaking too much._

“ _Take these off,” Roman says, tugging at the waistband of his jeans. “Daddy wants to see. You'll be a good boy for daddy, won't you? I know you will. My Jason—”_

  
  


Two loud, sharp honks snap him out of his fantasy. Jason jumps and gasps, watching his crew direct the supply truck into the warehouse. Without him. He glances down at himself, confirms that his cock is straining through his pants, and resolves to let them finish up on their own.

Roman doesn't need to know.

 

**Author's Note:**

> want to peek behind the curtain? follow me on [tumblr.](http://dicktofen.tumblr.com/) requests are always open!


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